Even a man who's shaken the hand
of God needs a day off to watch
reruns on TV, eat salt and vinegar
chips, enjoy the mouth as it parches
into the antithesis of a kiss
at nineteen on a wet couch.
My fortune reads: a little neglecting
of the details brings great mischief —
it can't always be the other person
caught in the crumbling apartments
we live in when the earthquake strikes.
Waking up may introduce the day you go
camping in the Cascades to be trapped
between raging fire and raging river.
The day we're laying on the couch,
I coax my hand under your black bra,
three days later you're wearing
someone else's embroidered leather
vest and pair of dark brown socks.
Lazarus only came back because he
missed seeing tan legs in short skirts
in July and for a chance at breaking
the world's record for number of times
risen from the dead. Guinness wasn't
there to verify and so he and Jesus
went and shot pool for pitchers
at The Waterwheel on North 15th.
I'm not trying to be sacrilegious,
I just want everyone to turn
out happy in fiction, at least,
since memory shows so little respect.
There's always Todd Decker giving
me a wedgie between 2nd and 3rd
period in front of Debra Martin.
There's always a final good-night
turning embers into dark at four a.m.
The water fountain never dribbles
down the front of Ben Franklin's pants
in the pages of Poor Richard's Almanac,
but he discovered electricity. I only
woke up and discovered you gone,
and the day after, it's not about resurrection,
electricity showing the world
what the world could be, if only
there was enough light.